“I have things on my mind,” he explained.

“And Delilah is downstairs, watching a movie with Xun, having spent a confused and somewhat frightened afternoon and evening with your family.”

Abel’s jaw got hard.

“Is there a reason you’ve spent thirty years yearning for her and then you get her and leave her?” she pushed.

“There is, and these are reasons I’m not gonna share,” Abel answered. “You’re just gonna have to go with it and take my back.”

She gave him a flinty look.

He accepted it and said nothing.

She then emitted a soft huff before she asked, “Are you going to The Biltmore?”

“No, I’m not.”

Her head tipped to the side. “This is not wise, my Abel.”

“You think I should walk into an ambush?”

“No. I think that I would like to feel the overwhelming gratification of understanding that my family’s nurture is what created a good, kind, strong, wonderful werewolf vampire, suffocating his nature. However, rationally, I feel that cannot be so and there is a good possibility there are beings out there just like you, and by that, I mean the good, kind, strong parts.”

“How about we know that before I waltz my ass into The Biltmore?” he suggested.

“How about you consider the possibility that centuries of questions will have answers if you waltz into The Biltmore?” she fired back.

This was not lost on him.

He knew one thing for certain about his kind: vampires called their partners mates.

That was all he knew.

And he had questions—questions about his behaviors, feelings, instincts, everything. All his life, he’d had questions.

In fact, it was a miracle he’d stumbled on how to numb his meal before he drew from them. It had taken him ages. He’d done it at what Mei had figured was when he was eight years old in human development, but he’d been alive for forty years. (Because, apparently, wolves, vampires, or both aged very slowly and then quit aging in their thirties in terms of human development— something else he knew, but only because he’d experienced it.)

Other than that, he knew nothing of the nature of his kind—either one.

So the impulse was strong, going to The Biltmore, finding answers. Especially now with what he was experiencing with Delilah.

It was also foolish.

“Do I have to remind you what happened last night, sweetheart?” he asked.

“No,” she replied instantly. “But has it occurred to you that eight people were killed last night and no police officer has shown at our door?”

His mind consumed with Delilah (amongst other things), it actually hadn’t.

He said nothing.